Being Human
by coffeebuddha
Summary: Carlton Lassiter is a serious man in a serious mood who needs to do some serious drinking. Oneshot. UPDATE: A sequel to this can be found in the 4th chapter of All Those Little Moments Are What Make A Life.


Carlton wasn't a huge fan of The Stumble In. Oh, as far as bars went it wasn't _terrible _or anything, it was just clearly meant for a younger crowd. The men were dressed like Spencer and the women were barely dressed at all. The lights were a bit too low, the music too loud, the drinks too fruity. It was a bar for hanging out and hooking up, not for serious drinking. Carlton was a serious man in a serious mood who needed to do some serious drinking. Seriously.

Still, it was close enough to his house that he could walk home, or if he was too drunk to do even that-Sweet Lady Justice, please let him get too blissfully, obliviously drunk to even walk-the cab fare wouldn't be too much. So, despite the fact that The Stumble In was very much not a Carlton Lassiter sort of establishment, he still found himself sitting in the shadows at the very end of the bar. It wasn't too crowded for a Saturday evening, but then they probably didn't do most of their weekend business until later.

He nursed his scotch-'Just leave the bottle. Yes, the entire bottle. For fuck's sake, I left my gun at home, it'll be fine!'-already buzzed enough that it took him a couple moments longer than he'd have liked to notice the woman slide onto the stool next to his. She was young and pretty in a generic, girl next door sort of way and looked vaguely familiar, but he didn't think he knew her. She was smiling at him, which meant it was really unlikely that they'd ever met. Bizarrely, most women seemed a bit put off after meeting him. No, Carlton decided, he'd bet money he'd never met her before in his life.

The woman slanted her body towards his as she gestured for the bartender with her empty glass. "Having one of those days, Carlton?"

Well shit. So much for still having some self-esteem regarding his keen detectiving skills. Carlton frowned. It wasn't too late to redeem himself. He was a finely trained interrogator. A master of coaxing people's innermost secrets out of the locked vaults of their brains. A really good…mystery solving…person. All he had to do was pretend he knew who she was until she slipped up or he remembered. Be subtle and inquisitive. No problem. Piece of cake.

"Who the hell are you?"

Double shit. Carlton glared at his scotch. Maybe things would be clearer if he had a little more to drink. He sloshed some more of the amber liquid into his glass and took a healthy swig. It was cheap and burned his throat, but he growled when the woman took the bottle and poured a couple fingers worth into her still empty glass. She quirked an eyebrow at him, looking more amused than offended.

"Wendy. Wendy Doyle?" At Carlton's blank look, she laughed. "Jesus, Carlton, I've lived next door to you for over three years now."

Carlton thought for a moment, then glared harder. "I thought you were still in high school. Aren't you a little young to be drinking?"

He lunged for Wendy's glass, but the alcohol was making him unsteady, so when she laughed again and pushed at his chest, he was suddenly mostly concerned with not falling off his bar stool.

"You're thinking of Winnie Carmon. She lives on your right. I'm on your left." Wendy took a sip of her-no, _his, _damn it!-scotch and shook her head at him.

Ooooh. Carlton's memory finally kicked in. She'd come by his house a couple days after he'd moved in. She'd been all pleased to find out he was a cop. Something about that being lucky and making the neighborhood safer. She'd mentioned a kid-her daughter?-and there was something about her husband that he couldn't quite remember now, but she'd been sad and he'd been uncomfortable, so it probably hadn't been good. She'd given him a casserole. He'd thrown it away, of course. You could never be too careful.

Wait, was she still talking?

"-should really come to a block party or something. Figure out who your neighbors are." Carlton grumbled an excuse about being busy, saving lives, doing very _important_ stuff. She waved a hand flippantly in the air. "It was just a suggestion."

She had finished her glass of his scotch, but the bartender still hadn't seemed to notice her and she was relatively unobjectionable and had a nice enough laugh, so Carlton poured her a little more, just to be neighborly.

Wendy smiled her thanks and toasted him. "So, you never answered my question. Having a bad day?"

Carlton rolled his glass between his palms and studied the swirling liquid a little more intently than was strictly necessary. She could ask all the questions she wanted. Nothing said he had to answer them.

"Ex-wife is getting remarried tomorrow. Drinking seemed like a good idea." God damn it, scotch! Always making him do stupid things like talk about his feelings. Carlton knocked back the rest of his drink. That would teach it a lesson.

Wendy was frowning, but it was more understanding than pitying or disapproving, and she moved up from unobjectionable to almost likeable when she refilled his glass again. And wouldn't you know, there _was_ a ring on her finger, but it was more decorative than marital and a little more of their first talk floated up from the dredges of his memory. Something about Las Vegas and a stripper named Tutti?

Oh. Right.

"What about you? How did you handle it," Carlton asked, hoping that that hadn't sounded as awkward as it had felt. He wondered belatedly whether he would offend her-if anyone had ever asked him something like that, he probably would have slugged them. Wendy just shrugged and smiled wryly.

"Well, my situation was a little different. Connie was still so little and I was so busy trying to keep up with her and not fall behind on my work that most days I just didn't have time to think about it. Then, almost before I knew it, I had a new routine and I still hated and missed Jim, but I wasn't crying myself to sleep. It was easier to get up in the morning. Life moved on." Wendy sipped at her drink and this time her smile was a little sad, but genuine. "And so did I. It does get easier, Carlton."

Carlton nodded absently. "And the missing him thing? Did that ever go away?"

Wendy hummed thoughtfully. "Yes and no. I don't miss him so much as I miss the way I felt when I was with him. Safe, protected. Like there was always someone there for me." She leaned against his shoulder, which was more physical contact than he was strictly comfortable with when it came to near strangers, but she was warm and soft, so he let her.

"And I can't tell you how much I miss having someone around to have an adult conversation with. I have a seven year old and I work from home. The first couple of months after the divorce, I would call this one take out place and just talk. They were very nice about it." She chuckled. "Tried to set me up with one of the delivery boys."

Carlton poured himself the rest of the scotch and relaxed just a bit against Wendy. They lapsed into silence for a few minutes. It was surprisingly comfortable, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Wendy was waiting for something. Patiently waiting, yes, but waiting none the less. He studied her out of the corner of his eye and cleared his throat.

"The house is too quiet."

She glanced up at him and silently arched a questioning eyebrow.

"Victoria was always making noise. She'd have the television and the radio on, usually at the same time, and she was always humming or singing or quoting along. And now, even if I turn them on, they're still too quiet. They're impersonal. They're…lacking," Carlton sighed and Wendy nodded against his shoulder. "I just don't know what I'm supposed to do. It's been over a year, years if you count the 'separation', and I still don't know and that has to make me some kind of failure and failure's _not _an option, but I don't know what to _do_!"

He was getting loud, could tell that much even if he couldn't seem to make himself do anything about it, and his breathing was ragged and there was a good chance that that stinging sensation behind his eyes was the beginning of tears. He couldn't remember the last time he had cried. Carlton slumped forward against the bar and dropped his face into his hands. Wendy was off of her stool in an instant. Her arms were gentle around him and she was making soft soothing noises and rubbing his back. He couldn't remember the last time someone other than Juliet had hugged him any more than he could remember the last time he had cried.

He swallowed tightly and forced back the tears, because Head Detective Carlton Lassiter did _not_ cry, period. But he leaned into Wendy's embrace, because she was warm and kind and it felt _nice_, and there weren't many things in his life that he could say that about.

As his breathing slowed and evened out, Wendy pulled back and cupped his cheek in an almost maternal manner. "Better?"

Carlton sagged, suddenly exhausted, but nodded.

"Good. Now, here's what you're going to do, Carlton. You're going to cut yourself some damn slack." Carlton blinked as Wendy hopped back up onto her stool.

"What?"

"I said, you're going to cut yourself some slack," she said, rolling her eyes. "There's no quick fix, no set rules, no this-is-how-you-have-to-do-it method to getting through a divorce. Being hurt, being lonely, it doesn't make you a failure. It makes you human."

Carlton picked up his glass and glared at it to keep from glaring at her. "But-"

"No buts, Carlton. Being imperfect isn't the same as being a failure. And if you forget that, feel free to come next door and I'll remind you." She patted his hand and grinned. "God knows I could do with the conversation."

***

Carlton woke up and immediately wished he hadn't. He couldn't remember much of the night before after Wendy's proclamation that the first thing they were going to do was "get another bottle of scotch, because this one's empty and that cheap swill isn't going to keep us drunk for long", but from the feel of his hangover, they hadn't stopped after that second bottle.

Oh Sweet Lady Justice, had he really danced on a table?

He gingerly rolled out of bed, only a little reassured by the fact that he was dressed in his pants and undershirt. He'd have to remember to go back down to the bar and see if they still had his dress shirt. Carlton shaded his eyes with his hand as he stumbled toward his kitchen and, more importantly, his coffeemaker. He squinted at the digital clock on the coffeemaker as he poked at buttons until it clicked on. The red numbers felt like they were being seared onto his retinas, but all things considered it could have been worse. He could have been disgustingly hung over at 9:30 in the morning on a day when he actually had to go in to work. Thank God for days off.

He was prepping his second cup of coffee when he heard the tentative knock at his front door. He picked up his mug and carefully navigated his way though his dark living room-as long as he's thanking God, he might as well toss in a thanks for blackout curtains-on slightly steadier legs. He tried to look through the peephole, but that took too much coordination and just _hurt_, so he settled for leaving the chain on and cracking the door open enough to see out.

The sunlight made him hiss, but he bit back a curse at the sight of Wendy on his front porch. She had on a huge pair of sunglasses that covered most of her face and she'd adopted the slightly hunched stance of someone who'd rather be curled up in the fetal position than walking around upright, but her lips were curved in a small, if wan, smile and the covered dish she was holding was giving off a mouth watering aroma.

Carlton grunted something that might have been a greeting and undid the chain lock.

"Morning," Wendy croaked. She frowned and cleared her throat. "I made hangover food, but I forgot that Connie's away at summer camp, so I made way too much and I figured you probably wouldn't be in great shape either after last night, so I figured I'd bring half over here and would you like some?"

Carlton blinked and rearranged her words in his head until he could understand them. And then he blinked again, because she was warm and had a nice laugh and the night before hadn't been completely terrible and she'd made him food and she _understood_. He peered at the dish. He couldn't tell exactly what it was, but there was more than enough for two people and from the way it was still steaming, Wendy couldn't have eaten any of it yet. He tried a smile that probably came off more like a grimace and opened his door a little wider.

"There's coffee in the kitchen if you're interested, but I can't guarantee any intelligent conversation yet."

She smiled. "Well, it's a start."

***

Kristin: Being Human, or as I've subtitled it in my head, Lassie Gets Shitfaced and Makes a _Friend_. I'm not certain how well I succeed with this one as far as characterization and subtext go. I'm pretty certain that any OOCness on Lassie's side can be attributed to being drunk since we know that alcohol loosens him up considerably. My goal was basically to write a story about two lonely people who meet and take (completely platonic) comfort in the fact that they're not the only ones hurting. Or something like that. Yeah…

**UPDATE:** If you enjoyed Being Human, there's a sequel/continuation of it in my collection of shorts, All Those Little Moments Are What Make A Life. It's the fourth chapter, Fairy Tales.


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